Breaking Bamboo (25 page)

Groups of Zheng Shun’s infantry were emerging from the burning camp. As they re-formed, more appeared. They were being driven back. If the Mongol cavalry to their right could not be deterred, a massacre must surely follow.

At last thunder-crash bombs had started to arc towards the advancing lines of Mongol horsemen. It was a shrewd choice.

Chen Song had picked the only weapon truly feared by the barbarians – and more importantly, their horses.

‘Steady!’ Guang shouted to the men round Swallow Gate.

‘No firing in this part of the walls or you will hit our own men!’

On the far flank came a huge explosion. Then another.

Horses were down. Others panicked at the noise, their riders struggling to control them. Still the Mongols formed a dense phalanx as they rode along the sides of the moat and ramparts, eager to fall upon Zheng Shun’s retreating forces. More missiles were falling. Battalions of archers and crossbowmen on the ramparts were loosing steadily, so the air filled with flitting swallows. For a moment Guang feared it would not be enough.

Then the flame archers lit their rocket arrows. Barbed shafts poured out in a ceaseless rain of smoke and sparks – thousands falling on the packed ranks of horsemen. The carnage among the cavalry was immediate – everywhere warriors and horses were pierced, some by several arrows. The remaining Mongols halted in confusion then broke, galloping back the way they had come.

Guang turned his attention to the struggling mass of General Zheng Shun’s infantry. Their retreat was surprisingly disciplined. Yet now the first sign of what had driven them back emerged through the black smoke – masses of armoured cavalry, Genreal A-ku’s best men.

‘They intend a charge as we retreat!’ Guang cried.

It was true. Zheng Shun’s regiments, horribly reduced by the fight in the camp, were halfway back to the city, yet the Mongols had gathered in force and were preparing a final, decisive attack.

It was a possibility Guang had anticipated. He judged the force of the wind by examining a loose pennant. It still blew strongly from the east.

‘Fly the yellow flag!’ he bellowed. ‘Fly the yellow flag
now
!’

Then he began to count: one, two, three. . . before he reached fifty a volley of spinning, smoking balls flew over the heads of the fleeing troops. Wherever they landed, small flashes scorched the ground. Almost at once the air filled with clouds of fumes. Powdered lime and arsenic spread in a sickly green and white mist. Mongol horses were rearing, riders and mounts unable to breath. A steady wind blew the noxious cloud onto the lines of advancing heavy cavalry.

‘More!’ screamed Guang, beside himself.

Seizing a giant crossbow lever, he thrust the soldiers aside and sent off the bolt. It missed the Mongols and stuck in the dry earth.

The first wave of infantry reached the moats. A few flung themselves in and swam desperately to the ramparts where ropes were lowered, hauling them up to safety. Most re-entered the city in a jostling stream, cramming the bridges with men.

But there was no fatal cavalry charge from the Mongols.

Guang’s noxious bombs had succeeded in deterring them.

Finally, the gates banged shut.

A strange silence settled on the ramparts. The open spaces behind them were full of wounded, smoke-blackened men, mingling confusedly with the exhausted catapult crews. There came no cheering from the Mongol camp either.

*

Guang found General Zheng Shun inspecting the treatment of the wounded. His cheek was bleeding from a sword gash. Men lay on the ramps leading up to the battlements, groaning or staring sightlessly. Many had abandoned their weapons during the retreat, a dispiriting sight.

‘Ah, my boy!’ said Zheng Shun.

Guang offered a half-empty wineskin. A great portion of it was sloshing round his empty stomach. Zheng Shun took it and drank eagerly. Yellow wine dribbled down his chin.

‘Better!’ he said, at last. ‘Good.’

The two men examined the scene around them.

‘They were waiting for us!’ said Zheng Shun. ‘There can be no other explanation. We penetrated deep into their camp. I tell you, they paid dearly for that. Then we were attacked by their cursed cavalry. How could they have formed so soon? It must have been treachery.’

The older man took another drink.

‘If you had not stopped them with your noxious bombs I would have lost my whole command. A sorry business. As it is, we lost a third of our men out there.’

Guang grunted.

‘So many?’

‘Three thousand, Yun Guang! In less than an hour! The worst of it, my boy, is that a great many were trapped in the camps. I hope for their sake they died fighting.’

Then the illustrious General Zheng Shun did something Guang had never expected. He bowed his head a fraction.

‘We may commend your foresight, Captain Xiao. You anticipated every event.’

Tears filled Guang’s eyes. He brushed them aside.

Protestations of duty touched his lips but remained unspoken.

He knew Zheng Shun honoured deeds not words.

Later that day, the defenders of the Twin Cities were confronted with a spectacle of General A-ku’s making. Hundreds of prisoners, their hands bound, were paraded before the still smouldering camp. Wang Ting-bo stood with his commanders on Swallow Gate to watch what followed. A slow and deliberate affair. Guang positioned himself beside his patron, Wang Bai, who surveyed the business curiously.

‘How wasteful to use crossbow bolts shot in the back of the head!’ he declared. ‘I’m surprised General A-ku allows it.’

‘I suspect the shafts are removed afterwards, sir,’ said Guang.

‘Ah! Of course. Yet surely, many must break.’ Wang Bai watched the executions proceed for a few moments. ‘I hear remarkable stories about your catapults, Yun Guang.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Quite remarkable,’ said Bai thoughtfully. ‘You do me great credit.’

Guang kept his eyes fixed on the next group of prisoners.

They did not plead for mercy. He wondered how bravely he would behave in their position. A vague unease formed in his soul, strangely like fear. He stifled it and examined Mount Wadung.

‘The executions are taking a long time,’ said Wang Bai, at last.

‘We must watch until the end, sir,’ broke in General Zheng Shun, a hint of reproach in his stiff voice. ‘Our martyrs deserve that honour, at least.’

Wang Bai raised an eyebrow

‘I will watch even if it takes a week,’ he said, gravely.

They fell silent. A-ku’s demonstration continued for another two hours rather than a week. When it finished Guang returned to his gilded pavilion and stared into an ornamental pond where lilies floated. Servants brought bowl after bowl of wine. He summoned Chen Song, who insisted on playing his lute to settle their spirits and the twanging continued until both were properly drunk.

*

That evening the moon unfurled. Ivory fingers touched the Mongol encampment and the Twin Cities alike. The moon knew no favourites. Humble or noble, soiled or brave, it did not care who gazed at its sad face.

Now its soft light stole across Apricot Corner Court. The fruit tree’s leaves were shrivelling in obedience to autumn. As the moon stared down, a single leaf fluttered to earth. The yowling of cats broke the silence then faded, their quarrel drowned by the vastness of night. Moonlight caressed the bamboo curtains of Old Hsu’s workshop, filtering into the darkness within.

The fan-maker sat at his bench, opening and closing a fan painted to resemble a peacock’s tail. In his youth, it had won him admittance to the Fan-maker’s Guild. Old Hsu had kept it ever since, even during hungry times. One must preserve one’s soul or become a person chosen by others.

His thoughts spread wide, then narrowed like the fan. He dreamed of the vanished world described by his beloved philosopher, Mo-Zi, before men’s hearts were corrupted – the Time of Great Togetherness, a hundred generations ago. His vision excited an ardour and hope he had almost forgotten. It made him feel young again. Could Universal Harmony be impossible, when it had once existed, however long ago?

Then, the Great Dao had truly prevailed! Leaders were elevated due to talent and virtue; they spoke sincerely, scattering peace as the sky does rain. They thought nothing of wealth.

They did not resemble Wang Ting-bo and his grasping clan.

Folk possessed a single family – each other.

Old Hsu’s hands trembled as he recalled the secret meetings he and his comrades had held, debating such matters. They had been led by a wandering preacher who never revealed his true name. Then the authorities took their Wise Father away. No one learned what became of him. The members of the Society drifted apart like a fleet deprived of rudders. Dullness and disappointment filled long years. He had observed former zealots becoming everything they once abhorred.

Old Hsu shook his head to clear it. With the coming of the Mongols they needed Mo-Zi’s vision more than ever, lest the world drown in anger, fear and despair.

The old man realised he was tapping the precious fan against his knee. Even here, in Apricot Corner Court, discord seeped from neighbour to neighbour. That afternoon, amidst news of the failed attack against the horse-people, an unpleasant conversation had occurred. As he and Widow Mu stood in the gateway, watching wounded men jolting on carts to temporary hospitals she had spoken with unexpected savagery.

‘I hope Captain Xiao burns every one of them! I’d fry General A-ku in oil like my dumplings!’

Old Hsu had frowned.

‘War will never vanquish war, madam,’ he replied. ‘Of course we must defend ourselves. But kill them all? Then we would be no better than our enemies. Besides, one day they might become our friends.’

To his surprise, instead of her usual deferential sigh or sideways glower when he tried to instruct her, she turned on him.

‘Traitor’s talk! Have you forgotten what they did to the prisoners?’

‘Widow Mu!’ he had pleaded.

‘I shall report you! Those scum would rape Lan Tien if they could and enslave my dear boy. How can you talk like that?’

‘Madam, calm yourself!’

Widow Mu slammed the door of her dumpling shop. With a heavy heart he had watched the procession of wounded men.

Mournfully, Old Hsu spread the splendid fan across his legs.

If only the Society of the Great Togetherness still existed! It might become a burning seed, lighting the sky with reason and compassion. He remembered lying on his bed when he was barely twenty, imagining the Middle Kingdom as a land of joy.

Why should that vision taste so sour now?

In the room next door his wife snuffled in her sleep. Old Hsu carefully put the peacock fan back in its lacquered box.

*

Old Hsu was not alone in sleeplessness. Across the moonlit courtyard a lesser light burned. Cao sat in the shop, hemp-scented tea on the low table beside her. She warmed her hands round a cup decorated with plum flowers. Shih was late back, as so often. It did not surprise her. The city choked on its casualties. All doctors had been conscripted to tend the wounded and the North Medical Relief Bureau must play its part. She did not expect to see her husband before dawn.

A tray of covered food bowls waited on the counter. Though she was hungry, Cao had set aside her own portion. Shih and his apprentice would be famished when they returned. Yet the scent of rice and salt-fish distracted her.

Instead of food, Cao digested the day’s news. Whispered tales had reached Apricot Corner Court. How the prisoners captured by the Mongols had died, one by one, while Wang Ting-bo mournfully watched from Swallow Gate. It was said thousands had perished, and not all bravely. For a moment Cao listened, imagining horsemen galloping through the dark streets. But it was just a single rider, no doubt a messenger, his harness jingling.

Cao pulled her robe close round her shoulders. Everyone knew how the Great Khan and his forebears had conquered half the world. The mountain of skulls must reach higher than Mount Wadung! Madam Cao, as was customary in the city, viewed the blessed peak as a symbol of hope. People prayed to the mountain in times of drought, urging it to nudge passing clouds so they opened their granaries of rain. It was remarkable how often their mountain listened. Yet why should it care for Pan-Gu’s fleas? Or the frivolous city at its foot?

Such speculations were unwelcome. She glanced round the familiar shop. They owned this room now and all those behind and above. Yet when they first arrived in Nancheng they had possessed nothing but love. And youth, of course.

What vigour she and Shih had shown to win this house! To build his practice from a case of needles. To win the trust and regard of neighbours, so that tradesmen bowed to Dr Yun Shih’s wife when she walked through Water Basin Ward. Was all that slow gain to be burned by the barbarians until only rafters and the charred outlines of walls remained?

Become nothing
Shih sometimes said in spiritual moods provoked by drink. Cao did not want to become nothing.

Except for the children destiny had denied them, she liked her life. Perhaps they were lucky, after all. Children in times like these would be an unbearable anxiety. No, they did very well.

Or almost well. Except for that dainty, heedless creature up the hallway.

Cao drank another cup of tea. Her thoughts swirled elsewhere. Brother-in-law was the only Commander to win honour in today’s battle. His exploits passed from courtyard to courtyard; how he had driven off the barbarians and saved thousands of men to defend the city. Yet one could not help worrying. The Mongols would hate him for his success.

Perhaps they would seek his death because they feared him.

And he looked so fine in his doughty armour! His up-thrust sword hilt made her think strange things.

A hand tested, then rattled the door. Cao grew stiff, half-expecting Guang, summoned by her thoughts. When she unbarred the door, Apprentice Chung slipped past, his shaved head lowered.

‘Where is Dr Shih?’ she asked.

Chung settled on a low stool by the counter. An irritable flush covered his face.